Violet Hill
by Juliedoo
Summary: Her Atlas, with the world on his shoulders.


-oOo-

That hero complex of his was going to get him killed one day.

The idiot. Ichigo just didn't understand (no matter _how _many times she kicked him in the shin) that he wasn't infallible. That he was just a teenage boy with a sword and the world on his shoulders, not some flashy protagonist from one of those weird shounen manga that she saw him reading sometimes when he wasn't bending over homework at his desk or running around town killing hollows or just being an annoying dandelion head.

And it scared her to death. So much that sometimes in the suffocating pocket of the night, as she lay curled up in on herself in the cramped womb of his closet, she thought she could almost feel the stickiness of his blood drying on her hands, hear the wet gurgle of a last breath squelching out of his lungs, see his warm eyes flicker out like an old lightbulb as his soul sagged away from his body (for good this time.) That he would die like Kaien-dono, and it would be her fault (again) because Ichigo would never have been dragged into the troubles of the afterlife if she'd just been strong enough to kill that hollow the night they met.

"Oi, midget." A paper wad smacked into her head. "What's with that constipated look on your face?"

An automatic scowl scrunched her nose, furrowed her eyebrows. She glared up from her sketchbook at the dumbass who was slouching against the back of his desk chair, twirling a pencil between his long, callused fingers and frowning at her as if she'd punched him in the nose and stolen his milk money.

"I was thinking about you, actually," Rukia harrumphed, hugging the sketchbook to her chest like a shield. An armor notebook. "It made me sick to my stomach."

The frown deepened into a Frown. He opened his mouth to ping pong back an insult, but abruptly snapped it closed. Leaned forward and set the pencil down on the desk, watching her in that quiet, still way of his that was oddly close to piercing. Rukia felt his eyes digging under her skin, uncomfortably aware of how perceptive Ichigo could be on those rare times he pulled his head out of his butt and bothered to pay attention.

"No, really. What's up, Rukia?" he pressed.

She meant to prod him. Poke his temper, pull the tiger by its tail, whatever, anything to deflect that focused gaze from where it was crawling all over her like rapid insects, creeping inside her eyes and ears. But what she said was not what she meant to say at all. "If you die, I'll never forgive myself."

Her words clattered in the suddenly silent room like marbles bouncing on a hardwood floor.

Ichigo blinked at her, his tense features slackening into kicked-in-the-head surprise. Then he unfolded his legs and stood from the chair and strode over, and she wanted the carpet to open its mouth and swallow her hole. He crouched beside her, hovering awkwardly. They were both silent for a year long minute.

And then he flicked her in the forehead.

Rukia flinched back and grunted in annoyance, absently reaching up and rubbing the stinging spot. "What was that for?!" she demanded irritably. Of all the gall! The downright impertinence!

Ichigo snorted. "You're being a retard," he said bluntly. His fingers grabbed her chin awkwardly, tilting her head up so she couldn't look away from his eyes. "I can't promise not to die, Rukia, because I'm going to someday," he told her, almost gently. "But I'm not hurrying to do it, and I'm going to try my damnedest not to anytime soon. And if I do, it won't be your fault. So don't make that ugly face."

Heat bloomed on her cheeks. She felt a bird of giddy nervousness flapping in her chest. When he talked that way, calmly, seriously, she could glimpse the man he was growing into, and it sort of made her want to cry. But not because she was sad, or because she was happy. She didn't know why. She didn't really know anything when it came to Ichigo, except that he confused her and made her feel things that she didn't understand and was afraid to peel open for fear of what would come tumbling out.

The only thing she couldn't deny was that he was important to her, and she was terrified of losing him. And nothing he said, no pithy reassurances,was going to change that. Words were words, and they didn't mean anything, because they wouldn't keep him safe.

But she wouldn't dump her problems on him. He had enough to worry about, and Rukia refused to be a bigger burden than she already was. If she could protect him just a little bit by swallowing the dread that was slithering up her throat, by choking back the jumbled apologies and recriminations and pleas that were battering at the walls of her lips, then she would. Gladly, and without hesitation.

Because he was Ichigo, Everybody's Champion, but someone needed to look out for _him_.

…

"Wait a minute. Ugly?! Who's ugly?! Fool!"

"Ouch! Dammit, Rukia, don't pinch me!"

* * *

**AN: **Title comes from the song "Violet Hill" by Coldplay. Give it a listen, it's pretty good. Oh, and I hoped you liked it. n_n


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